Sunday Morning Call
by Never-Clip-My-Wings-x
Summary: One shot; Another Sunday morning, the sunlight seeping through the cracks in the curtains. She did what she wanted; she always had, always would – but now, she paid the price when the mornings came. Sandra/?


**I was listening to my iPod when this song came on; I misheard some of the lyrics and ended up writing this. The song is Sunday Morning Call by Oasis (= Enjoy & ****review**** x**

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><p>Another Sunday morning, the sunlight seeping through the cracks in the curtains. Not her curtains – her flat is never this tidy on a Sunday, but the man still sleeping next to her, arms wrapped around her waist, was clearly far better organised.<p>

Releasing herself from his tight hold slowly, she silently moves around the bedroom, putting yesterday's slightly crumpled clothes back on, tiptoeing out of the bedroom, unheard and without a backwards glance. She self-consciously smoothes her hair as she stalks down the stairs, remaining on tiptoe and trying desperately not to make a sound. A floorboard creaks, and she curses under her breath, stopping still. _Damn Victorian buildings._

She slips on her shoes, all too aware that she's more than likely to resemble a hooker, walking around London in five inch stilettos on a Sunday morning in a jaw-droppingly short black dress and slightly battered leather jacket, accessorised attractively with smudged make up and knotted hair.

She creeps out of the door, closing it behind her and praying that he doesn't hear. Descending down the steps as quietly as her shoes will allow, she realises that she has absolutely no idea where the hell she is in relation to her flat – or, indeed, in relation to _anywhere_. Drayton Street? It makes absolutely no sense to her whatsoever, even less with a pounding headache and blurred vision, and so she sets off in what she hopes is the direction of the Tube.

Surely she shouldn't feel like this. Not at her age – she was getting _far_ too old to be getting drunk and waking up in a completely random man's bed. She did what she wanted; she always had – but now, she paid the price. No, she didn't get 'no-strings-attached' nowadays. What she usually discovered was that the man she'd slept with was _not_ a complete stranger, and hadn't entirely blacked out the night before – as a result, he remembered. Remembering was always a problem.

It won't last forever, she thinks. One day, she'll find a man who cares. Someone who loves her – someone who can teach her how to love. Her life _will_ work out right. No more divorces – it hurt enough the first time. No more sleeping with random men. Absolutely _no_ more vodka or tequila – under any circumstances. White wine, beer and Stella Artois from now on – they couldn't get her so thoroughly pissed anywhere near as quickly, and therefore the next morning's consequences couldn't be as bad – hopefully.

It will be alright. It _will._

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><p>Back at her flat, she's lonely once more. Oh, Jesus sodding Christ, now she's hearing bloody <em>voices.<em>

The first is Jack.

"_It'll be alright, Sandra, I promise. Just hang on; and it'll all work out in the end. You'll see." _

The next is Brian – which is a bad sign, if anything.

"_You know, research actually shows that as people get older, they're more likely to..."_

_Oh, Brian, to be perfectly honest, I really don't want to know._

The third voice belongs to Gerry – and she actually smiles to herself at this.

"_Bleedin' hell, Sandra, since when did you go all romantic? You slept with _who?_ Oh for Christ's sake, had you 'ad a yard glass of Smirnoff or somethin'? He's a complete and utter..."_

Then, the voice morphs into her mother. Oh joy unbounded, she was looking forward to this lecture.

"_Well, he's really quite good looking... divorced... available... do I hear the sound of..?" she sighs, "crashing disappointment..." she shrugs, looking a little crestfallen, but not altogether surprised, "Sandra, for God's sake, you can't sacrifice your personal life for the job! Look what it did to your father... I mean..." she gives Sandra a resigned look,_

The last voice is her dad. She closes her eyes, sniffing away the tears, as she always does, as she always did. As she'll always do.

"_Sandra, darling, you're beautiful, but you always seem to go for the wrong men, don't you? I mean... look at him. I know your mother's convinced he's the best thing since sliced bread, but you know what she's like. Hold on, though. There's always someone out there, love." He smiles at her – a warm smile – a smile that she missed like nothing anyone could ever possibly understand._

Oh, what could it hurt? She's alone. There's no one to see her. What's the point of stopping herself crying now? It doesn't make her any stronger. It just makes her crack inside. In front of people, she can't cry. Won't. If she cries in front of people, they want to comfort her. They think they're getting close to her, and that, to Sandra, is dangerous. She's wary of other people, if only because she doesn't want to be hurt – and people can only hurt her when they get close.

A single hot, salty tear rolls down her cheek. She can taste it as she presses her lips together, while tears begin to cascade down her face. She cries alone, not bothering to wipe the tears, not trying to stop herself from crying.

What, she wonders, is the price of what she's doing to herself? What, even, is the point?

She makes a resolution – the first of the year – to actually find herself in a proper relationship one day this year. She's getting far too old to have it off with a different man every time she gets drunk.

Surely, this time next year, she'll be asleep next to a man who she'll... cherish. Yes, that's the word. The other is a word which she hasn't used in a long time. In fact, she hasn't used _that _word since before her divorce. Every time she uses it, she gets hurt.

She doesn't want to hurt any more.

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><p><strong>Please review this, everyone who's reading, even if it's only short, it actually means a lot!<strong>


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